


The Epoch Of Silence

by billspilledquill



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, This is literally named 'Washingdad' in my folder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 21:12:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12176670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: December 14, 1799, George Washington was announced dead.





	The Epoch Of Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheAnswerIsAlways42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAnswerIsAlways42/gifts).



 

Death can be an incredible thing, Hamilton thought. Your own mother can be there, lured in that sleep you know she will not wake up, and yet we still put our trembling hands on her frail shoulder, trying in vain to wake her up. Love was as useless as this.

 _Useless_ , and just like that, her body became cold, limp, and as useless as this emotion he tried to avoid so bad, but didn't succeed. No one succeeded.

The sunlight pierced the gray clouds, and Hamilton found himself thinking, while he let the flowers down with a such a delicate gesture that he couldn't even recognize himself. His hands twitched, in need of a pen. He guessed at that time that he was competing against death with the speed of his pen, but death was just a poor player, waiting for you at the start. He knew you will always return to the start.

The truth was, death _does_ discriminate, like a house divided against itself, death doesn't stand in any spectrum. It chased for the sick at first, the happy men at last. But at last, he reminded himself with strange melancholy, the sick would welcome death as an old friend, and therefore he would become a happy man.

The flowers were as useless as the body buried inside the tomb. Nobody would like flowers, nobody would like to have flowers on their funeral, they were useless. Nothing in the eyes of the dead.

So when he went in front of him and put the flowers beside him, he felt more useless than those violets lying loosely around the dirt, petals, seeds, himself, were dimming, erased from its original color, fretted over this cold and sunny day, frowned upon the body that no longer had the motions, only achievement left.

At the end of the day, what will they remember? His failures? His successes? His past? His future? They will judge him from the eye of the future, and they will be nothing left in the certainty of mind, only memories sealed deep inside him. No one will ever know.

Hamilton wondered if any of this could be any different, wondering if death hadn't existed at all, what tragedy, what luck he can be blessed if his own mother didn't expired like the soft breeze at the end of the hurricane, and if his friends could just hold on— if bullets didn't hurt them at all, didn't pierce chests that were too fragile to resist the sound of the ripped ribcage, if he would be the one to die at last— all of this could be different.

“Please, sir,” he kneeled down and put his head on the cold tomb, where at a time he refused to put his head on his shoulder, where he was breathing and living— _son_ —, “call me son one more time.”

But life went on, as much he didn't cared, and that day, the streets were louder than usual, people were happier than it seemed and as he walked past the street, he wondered how many will remember Washington as a man who failed more than he succeeded.

And the rest was silence.

 


End file.
